


show up in shining colors

by brampersandon



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Groundhog Day, Juventus Turin, M/M, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 21:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14627193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: Gigi has won and lost enough to know that the roar of a crowd that isn't for him sounds infinitely louder than one that is.Cardiff, as it turns out, is deafening.





	show up in shining colors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltstreets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/gifts).



> nearly a year later, i am still sad enough to need fix-it fic for the final. sabs, thank you for needing it too, i adore you beyond measure. happy spring fling!! ♥
> 
> title comes from _spent gladiator 2_ by the mountain goats.

Gigi spends every summer of his childhood wandering down to the Marina di Carrara with his sisters, tucked between them like something semi-precious. Even when they've all prematurely moved away from home to follow their passions, even when he's too old for them to hold his hands anymore. Always between them, step by step across the rocks, to the sand, to the surf.

The three of them face the waves together, see who can keep their footing as the wall of water pounds down. It's exhilarating, knowing the wave is coming, knowing they're powerless to stop it. All they can do is try to remain standing, and the last one standing wins.

Pressure builds, pressure breaks.

So it goes. 

 

 

 

 

 _Ten years ago_ , people will start to tell him. Gigi is too polite to block his ears and hum until they stop, so he finds himself building up a mental wall instead. Gods, if football has them, care little for the turning wheel of time. It doesn't matter that this could be his last chance; it matters even less that the chance falls a decade after they kicked and clawed their way out of perdition.

Gigi has always found romance at every edge of football, and he has no intention of stopping in the waning twilight of his career. 

And yet.

 _Ten years ago_ , they say, and Gigi smiles and nods and does his best not to take any of it in. Just because something would be beautiful does not mean it's guaranteed.

 

 

 

 

"This isn't about me," he says into the night air. "It never has been." 

He clasps his hands far out in front of him, arms hanging off the balcony railing. The cigarette dangling from between two fingers is almost entirely burnt down and he's barely touched it — probably for the best. A nasty habit, one he should reserve for celebration only, and there's certainly nothing to celebrate just yet. Cardiff sprawls beneath them, a promise waiting to be fulfilled, vibrant even late into the night. 

Too late to be entertaining this conversation, but it needs to be done.

"I know." 

Gigi is sure he still doesn't. 

"It's about all of us. It's just—" Silence hangs, sudden and heavy. When Gigi throws a look over his shoulder he sees Paulo leaning in the doorway, half-luxuriating in the golden light that spills from the room and half in darkness, his head lolled away and arms folded over his bare chest. He chews his lip as he searches for his words.

Gigi stamps the cigarette out and turns to face him, pulled by the unbearable tug of fondness in his chest.

"I think about Berlin a lot," Paulo eventually settles. He finally meets Gigi's gaze, and for all the years between them, Paulo's intensity still sometimes hurts to look directly at. He doesn't remind Gigi of who he was when he was younger; he's somehow— more. More focused, more convinced that there is a way forward no matter what. "You guys were incredible. I wanted it for you— I still do."

"This is not about Berlin either," Gigi says, slow and deliberate, like if he places enough weight on the words they'll actually sink into the boy's brain. "We need to forget about that. Tomorrow is tomorrow and that's it." 

It's for his own benefit as much as Paulo's.

Paulo nods, tucks his chin down to his chest briefly before glancing into the room. "Technically today," he says, giving Gigi an effervescent little grin. "It's late."

"We should sleep," Gigi agrees.

"Absolutely."

" _Sleep_ , Paulo." 

"I _heard you_ , capí."

He hears, but he doesn't listen. Gigi's already dreading what that means for tomorrow— later today. Christ. He gently steers Paulo away from the bed, toward the door, handing him his shirt as he does. There's a little noise of protest, but they both know it's necessary.

"Hey," Paulo says after he tugs it on, both hands reaching up to curl around Gigi's forearms. "We're gonna win."

As simple and decisive as that. Like he's seen into every possible outcome and he knows which one will carry them through.

Paulo doesn't give him a chance to respond, just brushes a kiss over Gigi's cheek and goes.

Gigi stays next to the door for a long while, eyes closed, trying to tamp down the adrenaline already rushing hot through his veins. Belief doesn't bow to the empirical evidence mounted against them. It doesn't live in the head or in the heart; it resides firmly in the soul, it can't be explained away. 

He will always believe. He can't articulate why. He doesn't have to.

 

 

 

 

Gigi has won and lost enough to know that the roar of a crowd that isn't for him sounds infinitely louder than one that is. 

Cardiff, as it turns out, is deafening.

 

 

 

 

It's familiar: The weight of silver around his neck, the procession past the trophy, the dodging and weaving around celebrations that don't belong to them. 

There was a time, what feels like another lifetime ago, when a loss like this would turn him loose, set off a troublesome spark still buried deep in the back of his mind. He'd go out, he'd drink himself stupid with whoever would join him, he'd squint at the sunrise through bleary eyes and fuck and fight and laugh about it all later. But now— well. Gigi never feels _old_ , not really, but he knows he's getting older when all he wants is to go home. 

"Do you want," Leo starts to ask him, a hand lingering at his waist in the tunnel. 

Gigi doesn't let him finish. "Yes." If not tonight, when? Leo gives him a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes, squeezes his hip before he lets go. 

So. Scrub off the defeat. Face the media. Smile, do it genuinely, say _next time_ , mean it genuinely. Wait for the bus. Get to the hotel. Wait for Leo. Get in bed. Talk it through one too many times. Wait for sleep. Dream— again, always, dream. It's familiar.

 

 

 

 

He dreams of his own goal swallowing him up, his oldest friend of all turned against him, he dreams in smears of purple and green as the world goes dizzy beneath him and he lets in goal after goal, he dreams fitful and sweaty, he dreams like he's drowning— until he wakes up, a gasp rattling through his throat.

Alone.

Gigi sits up, dumbly pats at the side of the bed where Leo should be. The covers hardly look disturbed. Even though he can't hear it running, he gets up to check the shower anyway — and when he turns to leave the bathroom again, he sees his suit hanging pressed and pristine in the closet.

No. He stripped it off in a fugue last night, he remembers leaving it on the floor and telling Leo he would deal with packing in the morning. He remembers crawling into bed nearly naked, pressing the whole line of his body against Leo's, desperate for connection, something solid to cling to. He stands there in a rumpled sleep shirt and an old pair of shorts, looking from the suit to his reflection in the mirror. He feels vaguely ill. Something's happened to him, he's sure of it.

It's only when he picks his phone up from the bedside table and sees the same _good morning, good luck, I just landed if you all need anything!_ message from Alessandro that he realizes.

It was a dream. It had to be.

 

 

 

 

Everyone's vibrating around the edges with excitement at breakfast, and Gigi remembers that too. He remembers Stephan sliding into the seat across from him, teasing Gonzalo and Sami about how they _have_ to score tonight; he remembers their tandem demuring, and Mario jabbing him in the ribs to get him to shut up, it's bad luck. Every single moment is vivid and crystalline in its detail, right down to the breath that whooshes out of Stephan as he clutches his side.

"I think I dreamed all of this," he murmurs out the side of his mouth to Giorgio, because it's all too strange to keep trapped under his tongue.

Giorgio glances at him. "What, like déjà vu?"

"I guess," Gigi shrugs. He must look uneasy about it, because Giorgio abandons his coffee to face him fully. "But— more than that. It hasn't stopped all morning. Maybe I had a premonition?" He gives a little grin, tries to sound less like a madman, tries to play it off as a joke. 

Giorgio's not having it. He presses the back of his hand to Gigi's forehead and looks closer into his eyes. "Are you getting nervous?" he asks, soft enough so only Gigi can hear.

Strangely, no. If he's already dreamed of the worst case scenario, how bad could the actual thing really be? Gigi shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says, "Forget I said anything."

 

 

 

 

No one puts a foot out of place for the entire ninety minutes. Everything happens exactly as Gigi remembers, from the frenzy Mario whips the crowd into with his goal to the way things completely unravel after Gigi lets the second one in. Even though he knows it's coming, he can't seem to react quickly enough to stop it. Again. And again.

They lose, one to four. It hurts just as much as it did the first time.

Leo catches him with an arm around his middle as he tries to make his way to the locker room. "Do you want," he begins to ask, and it's that same broken note at the edge of his words that starts Gigi's mind turning. 

He stops, looks at Leo, searches his face for anything that he shouldn't already remember, but there's nothing. The heaviness behind his eyes is the same. The red mark on his nose from where he pinched the skin too hard to keep from crying is the same. The soft downturn of his mouth, the same, the set of his jaw, the same, the twisted ribbon and backwards medal around his neck, the same. If it was a dream, it wouldn't be this uncanny.

Clearly he's hesitated too long in his answer. Leo stares at him, hurt and bewildered, waiting for him to acquiesce— "Yes," Gigi says, the word jolting out of him, like an actor who's missed his cue. 

 

 

 

 

Waking up on the same gray morning isn't necessarily a surprise. Gigi expects it, even though he doesn't understand how or why. 

Not a dream. Not a premonition. Okay.

So— what, then? A cycle he's going to repeat forever? Some kind of punishment, maybe. A lesson to be learned, definitely. Gigi sits up in bed, rubs the sleep from his eyes and wonders what he can do differently. _If_ he can do anything differently.

It's worth a try. The worst that could happen, he thinks with a bitter little laugh, is he has to do it all over again tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

"Hey."

Sami turns to him. Gigi almost feels bad for what he's about to do, but he's been retreading the match he's seen twice over now in his mind all day, and he knows he has to start somewhere. Because they'll play well in the beginning, he knows they will, they'll play some beautiful fucking football — but he can feel the moment after the half where it all breaks down.

"Captain," he says, all warmth and ease. It makes Gigi smile despite himself. "What's up?"

He sidles up next to Sami then, lays an arm over his shoulders and bows their heads together. "I just wanted to tell you— Max said to play more defensively, right?" His mouth is dry when Sami looks at him sidelong, eyebrows raised. "Just... be aware. You know how quickly they can break. Keep an eye on where you are when they're attacking."

Sami levels a long stare at him. "I will," he says, his tone reassuring but the look in his eyes perplexed. He grins at Gigi anyway as he thanks him, and then he's gone, leaving Gigi to sigh and rub his hands over his face. He really has no room telling anyone how to play their positions better, but— well. Maybe it's a start.

 

 

 

 

It's still one-one at the half, nothing Gigi does can stop Cristiano's first goal. It seems to always deflect off Leo, and he makes a mental note of it — that'll be the next thing he tries to adjust. 

And to his credit, Sami's quicker on his feet in the second half, manages to intercept Casemiro's shot on goal—

And as they're trying to break, he gives the ball away. Modrić turns, fluid and irritatingly beautiful as he does, shoots, and.

And.

The names on the scoresheet bear a difference, but it still falls apart after that, still ends one-four. 

 

 

 

 

"Do you," Leo breathes, and Gigi clenches his jaw, says yes before he's even gotten all the words out. 

That night he lays awake for hours after Leo's drifted off under his arm, staring up at the ceiling, mind ablaze. There has to be more he can do. He wouldn't have to keep reliving this if there was truly no way for him to shift the result. His throat tightens with a misplaced sense of injustice — why him. Why don't any of them remember doing this before. Why the one man on the field who can't run out there and control the flow of the game himself. Why, why, _why_.

He thinks of trying to stay up through the night, waiting until he's back home in his own bed before falling asleep, but it's no use. He's so worn down and frustrated, sleep comes for him anyway. Gigi wonders if he'll ever wake up feeling rested again.

 

 

 

 

Gigi dreams of all the ways he could possibly get out of this. Oversleeping and missing the bus to the stadium. Showing up and getting benched for underperforming a dozen times so far. Something catastrophic occurring. An earthquake shaking the stadium apart. Countless nightmarish scenarios, one after the other, rapid fire, until he wakes up with his chest heaving and doesn't have to look out the window to know what's waiting for him.

 

 

 

 

Some scorelines end up _worse_ , possibly the universe's retaliation against his own ego. Thinking conceding four was really the worst he could do.

He screws up royally, loses himself in trying to analyze what everyone else is doing and lets Marcelo get a goal in. Real lead at half-time, and then they never catch up. One-five. Gigi's stomach drops through the earth. What if that's it? What if it's some sort of test — if they can't do better, they at least have to do the level same, or else the cycle ends. 

But he wakes up on the same gray morning, and he does it all again.

He lets go, lets eight in, just to see how it feels. 

At some point the loss actually feels freeing. 

 

 

 

 

The room is silent, pitch black, the two of them side by side on their backs, shoulders and thighs lined up. It's different. They don't immediately fall against one another. Gigi doesn't even greet him at the door, just opens it and slides back into bed, waits in the darkness for Leo to join him. They don't start going over what went wrong before giving up and letting their bodies do the talking. They don't let exhaustion take them. Gigi stares unseeing up at the ceiling and listens to Leo's harsh breathing, the occasional false start before a half-formed word dies in his throat.

He finally manages to grit out, "What the _fuck_ happened to you," and he sounds so wretchedly furious, Gigi almost feels bad.

But he doesn't answer. Anything he says will incriminate him. Everyone has bad games, sure, but _conceding eight goals in a Champions League final bad_? He should be a mess right now. He should be as angry as Leo, or sobbing into his pillow, or doing _something_.

"That was the last time—" Leo cuts himself off abruptly, lifts both hands to cover his face and sighs. 

Gigi decides he doesn't want to hear it. He rolls onto his side, swings a leg over Leo and rises above him. When he drops his hands from his face, Gigi grabs them and presses them back against the bed. He holds him there, rocks their hips together and watches Leo squeeze his eyes shut and swallow hard. He's living out a bigger loss than just this final, Gigi reminds himself. So he tightens his grip around Leo's wrists, leans down to swallow up his moan, and he gives him what he needs.

 

 

 

 

He's sharper after that, less inclined to find out what will happen if he fails any worse than he already has. The shock and disappointment scrawled across his teammates' faces is too much to bear, even though he knows it'll all be wiped clean in a matter of hours.

Still— it gets boring, watching the same failed shots on goal, the same risky tackles in midfield, the same panic in their faces when Real turn and surge down the pitch. Gigi jitters one leg impatiently in goal, waits for them to come to him. The most he can do is jump, dive, save— or try, at least. They keep sneaking the ball past him no matter how many times he watches them wind up the exact same way. Defending against the onslaught doesn't work. Clearly. They have to take matters into their own hands, _attack_.

Gigi can't make them do that. The most he can do is pull them into a quick huddle before the whistle, tell them to run with their chances — it's the final, it's the last opportunity they'll get, they don't want to go home wishing they'd taken that _one shot_ , right?

And they're trying. They are.

But.

One-four.

One-four.

One-four.

One-four.

One-four.

One-four.

Again. Again. Again.

 

 

 

 

Time stood still for him once, only once. In South Africa, the moment he felt something bend and break in his body like it hadn't before, the moment he knew— well, that's it.

He's not proud of it, but he remembers lying alone in one of the medical rooms, crying on the phone to his mother about just that. That's it, this is _it_ , his career is over. They don't know exactly what's wrong yet, but it has to be something serious. He'll never play again. Maybe he'll never run again. This could be the end of him.

As he crouches at the edge of his box and watches the early flurry of almost-goals, that same feeling returns to him, like the first sick warm wash of fever spreading. This is it. He'll never progress beyond this point in his career, never see it through to the end, never retire. He'll forever be Gianluigi Buffon, nearly forty, captain of Juventus, teetering on the brink of losing the Champions League again. Again. Again. 

"I would be fine with losing," he whispers to himself, eyes closed, like acceptance will magically do the trick. "I just want to go home."

It's not entirely true. Maybe that's why it doesn't work.

They lose, one to three. He saves Asensio's last shot. It isn't enough.

He wakes up and does it again.

 

 

 

 

Gigi dreams of being back on the pitch—

He is _so fucking tired_ of seeing that pitch. Asleep, awake, he can't move past it. He dreams of sinking down into the earth and staying there forever, alone, helpless as time moves on without him. Is it better to keep repeating madness hoping to inflict some small change, or is it better to let it go on without him? Maybe he hung on too long. Maybe he obsessed too much. Maybe he did this to himself.

 

 

 

 

"Good morning, we've done this before."

Everyone stares at him. Gigi sits with his back straight in his regular seat at breakfast, the same seat he's taken every day (save for the sixth go around, when he woke up so frustrated and confused and furious he made himself sick and skipped the meal altogether). He says it so nonchalantly, carefully unfolding the napkin and placing it in his lap, reaching for the coffee to pour one for himself.

"Like— Berlin?" Stephan asks, brows furrowed, eyes intense.

"No," Gigi says easily. "This. We've played this match before. At least two dozen times. We lose every time. None of you remember, do you?" 

He thinks he should feel some sort of cosmic slap on the wrist, but nothing comes — and truth be told, Gigi's decided he no longer gives a fuck what the universe wants him to do. He has to do _something_ differently or he'll die here, he's sure of it. 

Giorgio leans in close. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine. I could break my wrist and wake up fine tomorrow too." He blinks placidly at them. "Let's try it. Who would like to do the honor of knocking me out?"

To his surprise, it's Mario who laughs first. "Crazy," he mutters, shaking his head and turning back to his toast.

Giorgio has known him for too long, been with him through too much. His voice is low and serious, filled with nothing but genuine concern. "If you aren't feeling well, talk to Allegri— Neto could play, you know." Gigi snorts at that, right as Leo's finally taking his place two seats down from them. He watches Giorgio reach across to tug on Leo's sleeve. "Hey. Help me talk some sense into him."

Leo's mouth is full of eggs, so Gigi takes the opportunity to lean forward against the table, chin resting on the heel of one palm as he drawls, "Would it kill you to defend instead of deflecting goals my way?"

Mario's not laughing anymore. Nobody is. Leo chews, swallows, stares him down the entire time. "Excuse me?"

His voice is still morning rough, and Gigi loves him, and he loves them all, and he hates that he's about to do this. "I've seen this match through again and again. Every time, you manage to be in the wrong place and let Real get a goal or two in. I can't seem to get you to change. It's incredible."

Sure enough, the way Leo's face clouds over sends a spike of guilt right through his stomach. " _Stop_ ," Giorgio hisses against his ear. 

He would if he could, but ever since he woke up he's been a train careening off the tracks. He's tired of this shit, tired of trying to get them to be better when they just may not have it in them. Tired of knowing this is the last time, every time, tired of being the only one who knows. He's— _tired_ , so he lifts his coffee cup toward Leo, eyebrows raised. "Try not to fuck up your last match, alright?"

The chair clatters to the ground as Leo stands.

 

 

 

 

He plays the game with medical tape over his left eyebrow, the beginning blooms of bruising against his cheekbone and jaw. Leo watches from the bench, eyes downcast the entire time. In his place is Mehdi, and—

It's a mess. He can't keep his focus at all. They lose, one-five.

In the tunnel Leo still asks him, _do you want_ , and this time its echoes sound a lot more like _sorry_.

 

 

 

Gigi blinks against the wash of pale light. Lifts his hands from under the covers to feel his face. Nothing. No tenderness when he presses his fingertips hard against where Leo hit him twice. Nobody at his side. When he checks himself in the mirror, he's in need of his morning shave but otherwise perfectly fine. When he checks his phone, it's still June third.

He won't try that one again.

 

 

 

 

There is one constant.

No matter what they do differently, how Gigi tries to pull the strings and influence play what little he can, there is always that one crystalline moment of hope. Mario finds himself— no. Mario forces himself into the right place, like Real's defense bends around him as he barrels his way through, chests the ball, and sweeps it overhead into goal.

Gigi watches it twice, five times, ten, a dozen, more — and every time it's somehow more stunning than the last.

 _The most beautiful goal this year, by far_ , he hears an interviewer hounding Mario afterward. _Shame Juventus weren't able to do anything with it_.

He grinds his teeth but keeps on walking. They'll do it. They have to.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up, blindly picks up his phone without rolling over, dials Alessandro without reading his message.

"How do I win the Champions League?"

A beat. "Good morning to you too," Alessandro says, voice high and tinny as ever over the line. 

Gigi lets out a little groan and runs a hand over his face. He's trying to be normal about it, but it's getting harder with each passing cycle. He has to force himself to remember that to everyone else, this is the first time, last time, only time they'll do this. "Good morning," he says, forces the words out and unclenches his jaw. Breathes. Tries his hand at a little acting when he confesses, "I'm sorry, I'm just nervous."

" _Ma_ , that's normal, I'd be worried if you weren't." 

There's something in the overwhelming sincerity of Alessandro's words that makes Gigi feel— guilty, almost. He shouldn't be calling him in a fit of madness, in some desperate bid to unlock a secret he isn't sure exists. He shouldn't take advantage of him like that, not when all Alessandro's ever wanted to do is help. "It feels impossible," he says, and this time the strain in his voice isn't put on at all. 

When he laughs, it isn't unkind. Disbelieving, if anything. "Gigione, don't tell me you're giving up before it's even begun."

He has nothing to say to that. It hasn't begun, it's never ended, and he really is terrified he might have to give up.

The silence hangs for far too long. When Alessandro eventually speaks, he's softer, more serious. "Want me to come over? I can bring you real espresso, not whatever crap they have at the hotel."

Gigi scratches under his chin and sighs, shoulders relaxing for the first time in what feels like weeks. "Where did you find real espresso in Cardiff?"

"I have my ways," Alessandro trills. "See you in ten? Fifteen?"

"My savior," Gigi murmurs and rolls himself reluctantly out of bed.

 

 

 

 

Alessandro shows up at the hotel with a smart suit and his own designer sunglasses and a cup in each hand, greets everyone with his usual shouting and cheek kissing, nods to Allegri and says he's here for a _very_ important pep talk with their captain.

"That makes it sound worse than it is," Gigi tries, but Allegri just waves them off and tells him to do what he needs to do. Anything to get his head in the right space. There's a half-mad look in his eyes when he says _anything_.

He lets Alessandro shepherd him out of their common area, up a couple flights of stairs, out to a balcony — he shouldn't be surprised that Alessandro's been here before, he's been everywhere. He settles in, takes a grateful sip from his cup and stares out over Cardiff — the same view he's been waking up to over and over, but a different angle.

"Stop thinking about it," he says. Gigi scoffs, and he gets a little indignant. "I'm serious! You're here." He reaches across the small table to tap Gigi's temple. "Be _here_." And there's his palm, pressed right over Gigi's heart.

He glances down at Alessandro's hand, then into his eyes. "You're the worst," he says, but there's a grin starting to spread over his face. "And people think _I'm_ embarrassing."

Alessandro heaves a long-suffering sigh and falls back against his chair. "You never did like my advice," he wails, one hand laying over his own forehead. "No respect, none at all..."

They stay like that, jabbing and laughing at one another, and— maybe that was Alessandro's goal after all. It helps to unwind away from the team. It helps to make stupid jokes and prod and tease. It helps to forget what's coming for only a few moments— to stop thinking. 

Gigi drains the last bit of espresso from his cup and hides a smile in the collar of his jacket. He hates letting Alessandro know he's right, but— well, his head is a bit clearer after he's stepped out of it for a few minutes.

"You asked me how to win," Alessandro suddenly says. He rolls his empty cup between his palms, taps his feet against the marbled floor. His face has always been too boyish and open to ever really be sly, but there's a hint of something mysterious at the corners of his smile when Gigi looks over at him. "You just keep going, until the end."

 

 

 

 

Gigi looks over the crowd during the anthem, squeezes the shoulders of the child standing in front of him. Shakes Ramos' hand. Tightens his gloves, approaches his goal. Touches one post, the other, the crossbar. Turns his gaze toward their fans.

He can hear them chanting over the general stadium noise: _Fino alla fine, forza Juventus_.

He steadies himself when the whistle blows.

Just keep going until the end.

 

 

 

 

Cristiano gets his goal. Mario gets his equalizer. Allegri gets his halftime speech.

They keep Casemiro off the rebound. They don't give the ball away. They don't get another goal in, but they also don't fall completely apart. 

Gigi's spellbound in his box, watching them pingpong around in the midfield — it's unlike any of the other matches he's seen. He realizes then, it really does all stem from the moment they lose their focus and give up after the second goal — if they can somehow find a way to avoid that, they can fight their way upstream, they can keep from losing their heads and losing Juan, and maybe, fuck, _just maybe_ make something happen.

They carry the tie through to the end. 

They take it to penalties.

Navas saves Gonzalo's shot, Claudio's goes wide. 

Real Madrid hit their mark every single time.

 

 

 

 

It hurts, it always does, but this is a new hurt. Losing on penalties has a way of tunneling Gigi's focus down. The same way he stops thinking _my back aches_ and starts focusing on a single knot in a single muscle, pressing into it over and over to the point of shooting pain. 

He doesn't rush through his interviews, his shower, his talk with the team just so he can get back to the hotel as quickly as possible and start over again. He doesn't rush at all. He settles down onto the ground, in the grass by the goal, silver medal swinging in the bowl he makes with his arms and knees, and he thinks. It isn't something he'd normally do — not when he knows there are hundreds of cameras waiting to capture him resting there, plaster it all over papers screaming about a legend broken — but he knows the photos they're taking won't make it through to morning. 

They went until the very end, he realizes, and it still wasn't enough. 

Leo sits next to him, leans his head against his shoulder, doesn't say anything. He'll ask the question he always asks later. The shootout is just a rock diverging the path of the river he knows well; it'll all come back together soon.

 

 

 

 

They're doing better with each passing match, but it still isn't enough. Gigi's taught them how to counter everything they can. They can put on a beautiful defensive show, keep Real Madrid against the ropes as best as possible, but inevitably something slips through the cracks. Too many missed opportunities to take the lead. A penalty shootout they're all but guaranteed to lose. One last blunder in the ninety-fourth minute for a Ramos header. 

Once, only once, they manage to pull ahead. Shortly after halftime, Gonzalo breaks away and sprints down the pitch with the ball at his feet. It's nothing Gigi hasn't seen before, but this time he doesn't get dispossessed on his way there. He bodies his way through their defense, somehow, some way, passes the ball coolly to Paulo—

Gigi screams himself hoarse, both fists raised to the sky as he turns to the supporters. It's a habit — everyone is nearly always too far from him, and he refuses to celebrate alone, so he turns to where the shouts are loudest and holds his hands out to them. _For you_ , he thinks, every time, _You have to know they're doing this for you_.

Cristiano gets his second of the night not a few minutes later. It doesn't take the wind fully out of their sails this time, but they still can't convert any chances to reclaim their lead. Asensio scores in extra time. They lose, two-three.

Less embarrassing, but no less devastating. To taste victory for a few minutes, to think that they really could be on their way to finally ending this curse — the club's, Gigi's own, he's beginning to think they both tie together — and then to have it ripped away is just as painful as laying down and letting Real get in goal after goal after goal. 

Still. They're closer, always a little closer.

 

 

 

 

Gigi dreams, somehow, of the sea.

It's a welcome sight after nothing but football stadiums and cavernous goals every night. He's still there, of course he is, still rooted to his spot in the box, but just beyond the borders of the pitch there's a wide expanse of blue. Where are the rest of his players? Where are the roaring crowds calling for his head? He can't see, only the thick fog that blankets the pitch, only the sea lapping at the edges.

The waves come, slow at first, laving up to his knees before crashing and pulling back from where they came. Gigi stays standing there, watching, waiting, as the waves get taller. One crests at his chest and he keeps his footing strong, focuses on breathing.

The next is taller than him. It's going to crash over his head. He's going to go under.

Gigi dreams of Carrara, of Cardiff, of a lifetime spent learning that you can't try to fight the wave, you can only stay steady as it roils on.

Gigi takes a deep breath, plants his feet, closes his eyes. Pressure builds. Wait for it to break.

 

 

 

 

He wakes up in a cold sweat, flings the tangled blankets off of him as he scrambles to sit up. 

Life before this same room, same bed, same clouded over sky peeking through the curtains feels far from Gigi's grasp. Waking up in his own bed, next to someone else, ducking out for espressino and drinking it on the street while Turin rouses — maybe he'll never get any of that again. Maybe in time it'll fade even from his memory and there will only be this morning, every morning, forever.

Maybe.

It could be the adrenaline from the nightmare buzzing beneath his skin, but in spite of all, something about this time feels different. Something gives.

 

 

 

 

"We might lose."

They all pick their heads up to look at him, like little ducklings. It's cute enough to draw a smile across Gigi's face, which only serves to deepen their confusion. This isn't how most pre-match talks from their captain begin.

"It's true," he says, "We could lose just as easily as we could win. And what will happen if we do? We've all lost matches before. Some of us have lost on this same stage. What happens then? What changes?"

Silence rings briefly across the group before Miralem says, soft as ever, "Nothing."

"Everything," Gigi barks without a second's hesitation. "Nothing. _Everything_. That's football. The world keeps spinning. What are you scared of? The end? Losing is not the end."

He has their attention, all of them, even as they're still trying to catch onto his point. Sometimes Gigi's incredibly grateful for the timbre of his voice, the fact that he's never been shy with his words. He roves his gaze around the group, speaks clearer. "The end occurs the moment we give up. We make a stupid mistake, we start trying to over-correct, we get heated — and we give up. That isn't what we're meant to do. That's not Juventus. If I see any of you give into the pressure for one second, even if we're four fucking goals down, I'll come out of the box and shake you myself. We give up, we die. We don't give up, and we can say we fought for the result, whatever it is."

It all comes out in a rush, gets louder as he goes, and by the end he can feel all their grips over one another's shoulders strengthening, pulling the group in tighter. They're pumped up, antsy, ready to shout and get out on the pitch, so he bows his head and lets it loose, _fino alla fine_ , and the whole group screams back at him, _forza Juventus_.

 

 

 

 

Maybe it's quintessentially Italian, staring down the barrel of ninety minutes with all the opportunity in the world spread out before them and telling his team to prepare for a loss. But Gigi likes to think that after a year with this squad, sixteen with this club, what feels like a lifetime spent repeating this singular day over and over— he likes to think that he knows them well. It calms them by some small measure, lets them start out that much steadier. Taking away some of that pressure to perform and accepting the very real possibility of a loss, Gigi thinks, may just open up the door for a win.

Then again, he reasons with himself as he crouches in goal while the scoreline shows them level at one goal apiece, maybe he's crazy.

It's the thirty-third minute. Gigi doesn't have to look at the clock to know that. On the other side of the pitch, Paulo places the ball where the referee tells him, steps back a few paces, and waits. Gigi's seen this happen enough times that even from a distance, he can tell the slant of Paulo's shoulders is different. His stance, different. His breath, different.

The ball doesn't hit the wall.

The ball arcs neatly over it, right past Navas' delayed reaction, into the top left corner of the net.

It changes everything. It changes nothing. It changes _everything_.

 

 

 

 

At the half he tells them not to get cocky. Or complacent. Or unfocused. Or— any of the things he's sure they could be, but he's never gotten them to this point before, they've never led so early. Allegri sweeps into the room with a laundry list of notes for each of them and Gigi gladly lets him take over, sinking down onto the bench in front of his locker and trying to temper his racing pulse.

 

 

 

 

The charge in the air is palpable when they step back out onto the pitch. They're cautious, they're determined, they're _ready_. It isn't enough to defend — especially not a one goal lead, especially not against Real Madrid. They all know that well enough. They stay alert when the ball is in their half — but then they're pushing forward again, one mass of movement, one heart. Around the time he's preparing for the blunder of a clearance that tips the scales in Real's favor and lets them counter for two goals, Gigi realizes— it isn't happening. They aren't even close to him when they should be.

It's a whole new game.

He breathes deep, adjusts his stance to plant his feet firmer against the ground, and watches with fresh eyes.

Claudio still comes on around the same time, sweeps a kiss over Miralem's cheek before running onto the pitch. Juan's on too now, and Gigi watches him carefully. Less than twenty minutes to go, but there's still more than enough time to lose control.

Sure enough, he has to prepare for an avalanche of chances for Madrid. Giorgio clears a header from Varane, Alex Sandro risk life and limb to get the ball away from Bale, and somehow — Gigi will never understand how — he finds himself in exactly the right place at exactly the right time and scoops up a shot from distance from Isco that could have undone them just as easily.

They're all a little shaky. He can tell. He is too. As he waits for them to move out so he can roll the ball to Leo, he shouts for the ones who can still hear him to keep their heads. 

Leo hears him, nods, traps the ball under his foot.

He turns.

And after only a half-second of consideration, sends it long and gorgeous more than halfway up the pitch.

Gigi feels his chest catch and seize when it lands pinpoint perfect at Sami's feet. He twists around Kroos, slides it past Carvajal where it meets Claudio— and Gigi's seen this before, in training, in other games. He's seen Claudio pick out a pass, wind up and rocket it with no warning. He doesn't do it often, but when he does, Christ. It's a vision. Before Gigi can comprehend that it's happening again _right now_ , the ball's in the back of the net, Claudio practically tripping over himself in his haste to get the shot off. 

Gigi cups both gloved hands over his mouth and watches them pile up on one another next to the corner flag. He can't scream, can barely even breathe. Any cameras trained on him will find him wide-eyed, not celebrating, only reveling in his own shock.

His eyes drift toward the clock behind him as they all move back to their positions.

Eighty-two minutes gone. Two goals up. Asensio's coming on, and Gigi jogs backwards to his place as well, shakes his hands out, wills himself to not let this all fall apart at the last gasp.

 

 

 

 

Gigi is positive that in another world, another time, they still somehow manage to lose. Maybe Asensio gets a record-shattering brace to take them to extra time. Maybe Juventus are too fatigued to keep them from scoring again. Maybe it goes to penalties. There exists a very probable world where they let glory slip away and go home more heartbroken than ever. Gigi's sure of it.

But that's not how this goes.

They do have to defend against Real's attempt at an attack. Juan does get sent off, the same stupid foul and poor reaction, but this time they have the confidence to fill the gaps. Mario runs himself ragged taking over defensive duties on the wing, and in a moment of particularly brilliant clarity he dispossesses Modrić a few yards away from the box and whallops the ball out of their half.

Every minute makes Gigi's blood run hotter. They try for another push in attack. They win a corner. Nothing comes of it, and then they're all left battling it out in the congested midfield when it goes to stoppage time.

Gonzalo tries for a truly ridiculous goal in the ninety-second minute, the kind of move you only make when you don't _need_ the goal but you'd kick yourself for not giving it a shot. It goes wide, and when he turns around he's shrugging and laughing. They all are, Gigi realizes, all of their faces are bright and impatient. He's never seen them anything but downtrodden at this point. It's the first time he consciously realizes that they're going to do this.

When the whistle blows, it's an inverse of what he's watched so many times. Purple drops to the ground. Black and white stands. The crowd's noise rises to a crescendo, flags and banners and scarves in their colors waving frantically from all sides. They're singing, chanting, shouting, and it's louder than anything Gigi's ever heard. Louder than any loss he's suffered on this day, louder than all of them combined. 

 

 

 

 

When the photographers turn away from them to find their next target and they drop the medals from between their teeth, Paulo twists around and looks up at him. "Capí," he breathes, his face so painfully open with joy, "I told you we were gonna win."

A laugh jolts out of Gigi before he can suppress it. Right. Their conversation before bed was mere hours ago. Right, what feels like ancient history to him was just last night for the rest of them. Right, no one has lived this as many times as he has. Right, Paulo was right.

Gigi cups his face in both hands and tilts it up, like a flower turning toward the sun. He doesn't say anything, just laughs again and kisses Paulo's forehead before drawing him into a hug. 

 

 

 

 

And then.

As they're ushering him toward the stage where everyone waits, one of the officials hands him the trophy. The actual thing is unceremonious, set back behind the makeshift stage, and it's cold and heavy in Gigi's hands, black and white ribbons brushing against his skin. He stops for a moment, stares down at it. He can't help himself.

"Mr. Buffon," the official says, trying to urge him along. There are cameras everywhere, watching him watch himself in the reflection of the trophy. There are people waiting. His team. Their fans. The whole world.

If this isn't the end, he thinks, if he's destined to keep reliving this day until he gives up and calls it quits, then at least he had this. One moment to himself, the first time he ever held it, the last.

When he looks up again, his vision is a little cloudy. He can't help that either. He climbs the steps up to the stage, and they part a tight path through the middle for him to shoulder through. They're all already bouncing, singing, shouting, they have been since the final whistle. Gigi does his best to take it all in so he can keep it as something warm to cling to the next time they have to do this — Giorgio to his left and Leo to his right, their hands on his shoulders as he crouches down and steadies his grip on the trophy. Paulo and Juan slamming their palms against the stage from where they sit in the front. Claudio, eyes bright and wet, grinning at him in wonder. Stephan and Sami both with their arms around Mario's waist, Miralem and Mehdi leaning heavily on one another, Andrea with his hands over his mouth like he still can't believe it. They're all beautiful. He'd do this again, thousands of times if he has to, if it means he gets to see them like this even once.

He lifts the trophy and screams up to the sky, caught up in the deafening swell of noise.

 

 

 

 

They don't have to stay overnight. They stay in Millennium Stadium as long as they can, kissing the trophy and their medals, posing for photographs, drinking champagne, celebrating with the traveling fans. They're supposed to catch a redeye flight back to Turin, hop on the team bus, bring the trophy down the well-worn streets to its new home. Gigi can feel himself running on fumes, knows he needs to catch a few hours of sleep on the plane, but he's terrified to close his eyes for even a second. He wants to see this through to the end before he loses it. He wants to carry the trophy in himself and present it to their fans. He wants all the fanfare, the speeches, the endless party. He wants, he wants, he wants; he's spent so long staunching all that want, it's uncontrollable now.

Maybe it's fortunate then that the plane is far too rowdy for any of them to get a nap in, despite the firm suggestions from the medical staff. "Fuck that," Allegri roars once they're all aboard, "We've won, nobody sleeps tonight!" More shouting. More music. More champagne. Gigi, maybe somewhat predictably, winds up pressed against the door of the lavatory, Leo's fingers tangled in the ribbon around his neck.

"Do you want," he says breathlessly against Gigi's lips, and Gigi nods frantically, eyes still shut tight. He's fallen asleep next to him every other time they've done this, hell or high water. 

It'll be a long time until they get there, though. Someone bangs on the door, shouts for them to get their asses out and sit down for landing. Gigi feels like he could cry again when he buckles into his seat by the window and watches Turin emerge from below the cloud cover, kissed by the first sign of sunrise. Maybe he'll never sleep again. Maybe he'll keep living in this haze, adrenaline-fueled and so deliriously happy.

 

 

 

 

"I don't want this to end," he confesses from where he sits on the grass, eyes heavy with exhaustion as he stares across their pitch. Things are finally dying down, more than half the fans filtered out, everyone finally starting to feel the weight of the past few days catching up to them. 

"Come over," Claudio says. "I'll invite Andrea and Giorgio. Bring Leo. We can keep going— after we sleep, of course."

"Of course," Gigi echoes. He grins at him, and then Claudio's got an arm over his shoulders, dragging him in for an awkward sort of seated hug, lips brushing over the top of Gigi's head. Of course. Why would he let this end anywhere else, with anyone else? It has to be with them. It has to.

 

 

 

 

The four of them share a taxi over to Claudio's, don't even try to toast one more time to their success, just strip down and crawl into bed. Doesn't matter that it's the middle of the damn day. They decide on the drive over: They'll wake up for dinner, they'll have their own celebration, they'll go back to sleep and try to return to their regular schedules. If they can. What's the regular schedule of a Champions League winner, Andrea jokes, head thrown back as he laughs. Gigi leans his elbow against the car window, cheek in one hand as he listens to them plan out the food, the wine, all of it. When they ask if that sounds good to him, all he can manage is a nod. 

In the way things that are too good to be true tend to do, it feels like it's starting to slip from between his fingers. They've won, he reminds himself. Tomorrow doesn't matter yet. Today, they've still won.

 

 

 

 

He sleeps.

He doesn't dream.

He remembers.

There's a great green pitch and a goal behind him. Everything gets wider and brighter and louder before it tunnels down to a single point of light, the seconds ticking away, everyone far from him as the end starts to near. He's alone on his side. He's alone when the whistle blows. He's alone when he drops to his knees and raises his fists to the sky. And then he's up, he's running full tilt, faster than he ever has before, arms spread wide. The stadium falls away. No noise, no opposition, nothing but this — green below him, blue above, all of them sweeping him into their embrace. 

 

 

 

 

Gigi wakes up—

And his head is _throbbing_.

He groans, presses the heel of his palm to his temple and tries to hide his face against the pillow. It makes the pile of blankets next to him shift and produce its own noises of discontent.

His eyes fly open despite the pain — not alone. Leo beside him. Not in Cardiff. Turin. One of Claudio's guest rooms. Sunset through the window. The unmistakable sound of Andrea snoring down the hall. 

It's still a dream. It has to be. He turns his head, his whole heart twisted up into his throat, and he sees the gold medal on the nightstand, lying in wait. Gigi reaches out to touch it, cool and smooth and real. That isn't enough. He picks it up, holds it against his chest like a child as he curls back up. 

"Wake up," he whispers, almost entirely to himself. Leo rolls over and squints at him through the dying light. 

"I'm awake," he mumbles. "What?"

Gigi feels lost, scattered to the wind. He slept. Time passed. He's still here. They never have to do it again. He searches for his words, tries to think of how to explain it to Leo, to _anyone_ , but nothing comes. 

"Gigi, what," Leo repeats, fully awake now, a hand reaching out to wrap around his wrist.

His fingers clutch against the medal when he finally settles for a shrug and a smile.

"We won."

**Author's Note:**

> \- in 2006 juventus were relegated to serie b in the aftermath of calciopoli, and thus the 2017 ucl final fell a full decade after their return to serie a. ~*~the narrative~*~
> 
> \- 2017 was gigi's third ucl final, after losing to milan on penalties in 2003 and barcelona in 2015. alessandro also played three finals (1996, 1998 and 2003) — he just happened to win one of them. I WANTED TO MAKE THEM MATCH, OKAY.
> 
> \- if you believe the rumors, leo had already made up his mind to leave juve by this point and gigi was the only player who knew/the only one who kept him there through the end of the season. I CHOOSE TO BELIEVE THIS WHOLE HEARTEDLY, and thus this also became mild gigi/leo angst because... of course it did.
> 
> \- if it interests you, here are some [rewatch](https://i.imgur.com/U9j2zEU.png) [notes](https://i.imgur.com/kn7RIHl.png) and [misc rambling](https://i.imgur.com/eOJwmGw.png). ("on a leo note..." may as well be on my grave.)
> 
> \- technically this is all [raumdeuter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter)'s fault, because immediately after the final she said "there isn't enough time loop fic in football, write it for this" and it stuck in my demon brain ever since. SO, THANKS DR. PIGBLORPS. ♥ 
> 
> \- [here have a writing playlist that's 90% mountain goats because of course it is](https://open.spotify.com/user/brampersandon/playlist/39paLGL4X9wfyOpogSpFW3?si=cENZY7c-QJKESbIzbCrXvw)
> 
> \- thank you so much for reading!! ♥ this was the most deeply self-indulgent wish fulfillment i've ever written and will ever write, so if you made it to the end, i'm super grateful. you can find me on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com) if you ever want to yell about juve.


End file.
